Todd and Blair: The Christmas Present
by Tessaray
Summary: It's Christmas 1994 and Blair offers herself to Todd. It's his first time since the rape, and he struggles with his demons. Todd's POV. Mild bondage, very M.


He can't imagine why she wants him.

But somehow she does, on Christmas Eve, here in her aunt's penthouse. It's charity, he knows, fueled by alcohol and sorrow, but he'll take it, and deal with her inevitable disgust and rejection later. For now, how good it feels to be with a woman again—beautiful, soft, warm—instead of his own hand at the cold end of a long shower, carefully sifting fantasies to avoid anything smacking of coercion, cruelty, violence. Doesn't leave much. How vile his fantasies had been, how sick. What once made him come now makes him limp and weak with self-loathing. Self-awareness sucks.

She's offering herself, removing that red velvet dress like wrapping paper. She's a gift. She's his first since the rape, since the trial and prison and his repentance. They both know it. And now she'll have the upper hand. They both know that, too. But maybe, for the first time, he can handle it.

She's kissing him, with lips and tongue so skilled and patient. He's timid with her, afraid of hurting her, afraid–terrified–of losing his hard-won control. He's timid and he hates it, hates weakness–his father taught him that–but what else can he do? She sighs and he freezes. Marty had sighed. Is he hearing pleasure now or resignation? He doesn't know, wonders if he ever knew. Had a woman ever enjoyed him, or had he always forced, used, abused? He doesn't know anything, decides he'll let her do what she wants, use _him_ how she wants, hopes there's some small pleasure in it for her.

She's speaking now, moving his hand between her legs. She's wet–must be thinking of someone else–but whispers his name. She's naked, but he won't look at her, looks at the pillowcase instead–some wavy patterned thing–and lets her press his fingers against her. Her hair, her skin, sweetly scented, so soft. He feels himself stir, feels the flow of blood to his cock, knows that's what she wants, but he thinks of prison–the stale echo of vomit on his pillow–and controls himself once more.

This won't do, he knows. He has to give her something, so he maneuvers his mouth between her legs. _Make her come, then you can leave,_ he thinks, and tongues her until he hears her moan. Did he hurt her? Marty had moaned. He sees Marty, her half-dead eyes, red sweatband between her lips, but Blair pushes forward, urging him to continue. He sucks, swirls his tongue, feels her swell, feels himself stir, thinks of prison. When she starts to come he's relieved, tongues deeper, allows his arms to encircle her hips, rests a palm on her flat stomach. She writhes against him, cries out. Marty had cried out, with panic and anguish. This is different, but not different enough. Maybe he can leave now.

She calms, reaches for him, pulls his shirt off over his head. She wants to kiss him again and he allows it, she licks her flavor off his tongue and he allows that, too. She reaches for his cock and then there is confusion in her eyes, _You're a rapist_, he sees her think, _you should be ready_.

'You don't trust yourself,' she says instead, with something like pity. 'Do you trust me?'

Yes, he realizes that he does, so he nods. She gets off the bed, but he won't look at her body as she crosses to the dresser, comes back with scarves.

'Lie on your back,' she says softly. He rolls onto his back.

'Put you hands over your head,' she says. He doesn't. He lies still, thinking of his father.

'You can trust me,' she whispers. Her eyes are moist. Yes, yes he can, so he lifts his hands above his head.

She circles his wrists with the scarves, ties them to the headboard.

'Is that too tight?'

He shakes his head. She's sweet. He imagines ramming his cock, hard, into her mouth, and winces.

She straddles his hips, lowers her head. Her long hair sweeps over his chest, tickles, arouses

'It's safe now,' she says. 'You can let go. You don't have to worry about hurting me.'

He tests the scarves, knows he could tear them easily, imagines terror in her eyes. It hardens him instantly and he hates himself.

She runs soft hands over his arms, his chest, leans down to kiss him but he won't open his mouth to her. How could she possibly...?

She smiles sadly.

'You're so beautiful,' she says. He knows it's a lie. She moves down to undo his buckle, unzip and lower his pants. He can still taste her, tries not to think of prison or his father, tries to feel her hand on his cock, tries to give her what she wants so he can leave, tries to forget that she's not really safe.

'That feels good,' he says when she takes him into her mouth. He hears his voice waver–fucking weakness–but he says it again. It does feel good, not like that guy in prison who cornered him, all teeth and noise. She's sensual, slow and when he lifts his hips from the mattress, opens his mouth to gasp, she stops, kisses his thighs, his stomach, and calms him. He's pathetic. So grateful now, so needy. She does it again, takes him between her lips, strokes his tip with her tongue, then down, engulfing him slowly, then again, until familiar horrors begin to recede–dark impulses, darker images and fear that paralyzes–and all that's left is the heat of her mouth, her taste on his lips, the memory of her quivering against his tongue.

His eyes are closed when she moves. He opens them too late to see her shift over him and sink down, but he feels it, the enveloping heat and pressure, and he reflexively moans and thrusts inside her.

She watches his face openly as she rides him, locks into his eyes. He doesn't want to be seen, so he looks away, tugs at the scarves and reminds himself that he could. _He could_. Even now.

She's playing with his hair, running her fingers through it, caressing his lips. 'So beautiful,' she whispers.

He wants to see if she means it, glances quickly at her face. She does. His eyes move to the gentle sway of her breasts, then to the union of their bodies, her glistening wetness on his cock as she rises and falls. He feels himself surge at the sight, feels the restraints on his wrists. He needs suddenly to grab her hips, to control her.

He yanks at the scarves, expecting them to give way like tissues. They hold. She's moving faster now, circling her hips, and he's desperate to flip her over, to fuck her hard. He tugs again, and again the scarves hold. He struggles in earnest and she leans down, slides her hands up his arms to his wrists, pinning them in place, and he stills instantly. She looks deeply into his eyes and he doesn't look away.

He's going nowhere. He doesn't want to.

Her breasts are within reach so he arches up, grasps a nipple between his lips and sucks, thrusting deep inside her again, then again, sucking, biting her nipple as a searing wave of pleasure approaches. She's wrapped her calves under his thighs, trapping him, and she's rocking her pelvis mercilessly, clenching him with hot-wet pressure, milking his thrusts. He releases her nipple to moan as she suddenly shudders and gasps, squeezing him so hard, so rhythmically that he comes before he's quite ready, spasming helplessly inside her with a pleasure so intense he feels dizzy long after it's over.

She's draped along his body now, motionless. Her weight is nothing, he feels their wetness start to seep onto his balls, and it's good. He feels her lips on his throat, a breath, a kiss. Her fingers reach up to fumble with the scarves at his wrists and he notices that his arms have gone numb.

'Merry Christmas,' she whispers near his ear as the knots give way, freeing him. He allows his arms to float down and embrace her; his fingers weave into her hair, he lifts her chin. He kisses her tentatively and is amazed–and always will be–when she opens herself to receive him.


End file.
